


Cambiare

by orphan_account



Series: Più spesso di sangue [1]
Category: FireBreather
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Be Careful What You Wish For, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Mistaken Identity, Name Changes, Sibling Bonding, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only natural that to want to know your origins, your parents. That's what Dante thought, until it actually happened. By then, it was too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologo

**Author's Note:**

> Good morning people, I have posted this story under the name of 'Demon Child' in FF.net, but I decided to rewrite it quite a bit and post it here. So...it's kinda an AU of my AU?  
> The chapter titles will be in Italian, by the way.  
> Okay, review and enjoy,  
> H. E. B.

What would you do if you didn't know your origins? Your identity. Who you are. What would you do?  
While you're pondering this, I'll tell you what I did. I looked for answers. I wanted to know who I was, I mean, I knew I was adopted, it's only natural I would want to know the ones who made me. In my case, that unleashed a chain of events nobody would have been able to predict.  
For the longest time, I thought I was a normal kid. Turns out, I was wrong about that too.  
I wish I hadn't been so curious about my birth parents' identity. Maybe all of this wouldn't have happened. When you make a decision you can't help but wonder what would have happened if you had chosen differently. But I'm getting off topic.  
—Of course, this is an introduction.  
A beginning. I suppose I should introduce me. Where are my manners?  
My name is Dante White. Or, at least, that's how I'd introduce myself a year ago. Now, I've been told my name is Duncan. So call me whichever you prefer, though I favor Dante. See what I mean? I don't even know my name. What should I call myself?  
I don't know...  
…do you?  
If you want, I will tell you how I tangled myself into this mess.  
If you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story.  
I'll show you something.


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn't seen that coming.

He had been just walking out of school, his blue backpack a steady weight behind him, his mind already flying away with thoughts of what he would do when he finished the lengthy pile of homework his teacher had given him.

He had been brought out of his musings by a crunching sound beneath his foot, causing him to immediately crouch to see what he had stepped on. A rather large piece of mirror, which he quickly grabbed, wondering about the usefulness of the object. Unluckily, he had been distracted enough he didn't see the kick that pushed him to the ground, knocking the breath out of him.

"So you like being near the ground, Inferno?" A voice he despised taunted him. Great, just great. Just one distraction and Troy and his goons were already on him.

_Inferno._  The nickname his brother had given him after discovering his little...addiction. The boy quickly stood up, not looking at his attacker in the vain hope this would be it.

"What's that in your hand? Let me see." he took a step back at the same time Troy advanced towards him.

"I don't have time for this, I'm late." he muttered. Him speaking seemed to be the trigger for Troy to push him again, enough that he stumbled trying to regain his balance.

"You know, it was really interesting what Miss Dale talked about, about how some babies are thrown aside like trash. Sad, don'tcha think? Especially since we have an example of that in our own class."

And there was it, the blurring of the world while the larger boy continued taunting him, waves of rage licking at him, stronger and stronger, until one of them took his common sense away.

"Shut up! Shut up." he growled, loudly at first but quieter the second when the boy was assured that he got the bully's attention enough that he stopped talking. "Shut up."

Troy regarded him with a smirk, either appreciating that he rose to the bait or waiting for the opportunity to knock him around some more. "What did you say, freak?"

"Stop bothering me. You know, yes, my parents aren't my birth ones, I don't know them , whatever you say, but at least I'm not a loser like you, you jerkass."

He could see the widened eyes of the other kids as Troy's own eyes narrowed. The boy was glad to see it happening, glad he could wipe the smugness from his eyes. "You're a loser and you know it. You'll never, never be someone. I pity you."

The sight of one, two, three other boys who didn't look the least bit pleased with him made the bravery disappear.

* * *

Dante White sighed as he picked up the pages that remained of his once-complete essay. It wasn’t fair. Of course he’d be the one who Troy and his lackeys would pick on this time. He could take them on, one or two, but four of them against one? Not a chance. The only thing he could do was stand and watch as they took his backpack and threw it around, eventually opening it and spilling its contents around.

_‘They had no right…’_  Dante thought, the pages crumpled in his hand as he went to the park, following a shortcut that many of his classmates used to go home. Trying not to think about what happened, the brown-eyed kid looked around. A few kids were playing in the swings while the parents watched nearby. A dog was resting on a patch of grass, catching as much sunlight as he could. A couple of girls from his school were chattering about who-knows-what. His friend Isabel about to enter her house and waving at him.

The scenery around him was both familiar and boring. Nobody looking at him with inquisitive eyes, wanting to know. Nobody there about to tattletale on what he was about to do, yet he still felt like a sore thumb every time he decided to do  _it_.

But it didn’t stop the bullies from stopping him when he was leaving school. Again and again and again.

Power was a strange thing. 

Power. 

Raw. Animalistic instinct. Once was never enough. 

Before he was aware of what he was doing, the ten-year-old was dashing, not caring how far he ran. He had walked those streets his whole life, he knew them just the same as if they were etched in his head with a sharp knife. Never in the same place twice, away from onlookers.

He knew it wasn’t right, what he was about to do. He knew it was dangerous, but he couldn’t help it. People become addicts to anything that makes them feel better for a while. It happens with alcohol, coffee, people... Cigarettes were almost normal, same with alcohol, but his... 

His addiction wasn’t welcomed around.

Dante hesitated, remembering the warnings and the asking. He shouldn’t be doing that, he knew that much, but it hadn’t hurt anyone so far.  _‘They all think I’m some sort of troublemaker…I’d be proving them right if I do this…’_

But still…still…

A few pages ripped off his notebook, the ruined essay, some sticks and his trusted lighter. The nascent fire played amid the kindling like a child with a new toy, its flames leaping in excitement, it's quiet crackling like so much giggling in the woods. Dante allowed a smile to form on his face.

Heat. Burning. Flames danced upon papers. For a little while it eased his consciousness, it calmed him, the orange, red, blue, even purple, and white, were a balm to his mind, if not his body.

The dancing flames were pretty, as well as tantalizingly dangerous. There was something just mesmerizing about a flickering flame, the red, yellow, orange. The colors of autumn. He loved to feel its warmth, to test its limits, to see how they consumed everything they touched.

It was beautiful.

So incredibly beautiful.

His dad would say that it’s natural to feel uncomfortable with the opinion of certain people about matters you liked, even if the people in question knew him. Even if he had an older brother, he usually played by himself a lot. Too much, his grandmother used to say.

Loneliness made him experiment. Dante liked to play with fire, liked what the flames did, how they transformed objects, textures, colors. He liked to think it was art, in a way. Sometimes Dante thought he must be a little insane to think like that. He didn’t know, honestly. He had only talked about it with his family and two very close friends. It was their secret. It was his defect. He loved fire. His family didn’t. He could understand why they got angry or worried if they saw him burning things in the oven, or making a bonfire in some wasteland.

Really, he had caught his brother staring at a candle’s flame, how the hazel eyes were hypnotized by it the same way Dante was. Maybe it was because he made fire, bigger than average? Because it could hurt them? That, he could understand, he had gotten a few burns from it.

He still remembered how Davide had discovered him in this very same spot, last year. The boy’s hair was sweaty and messy and his breath had been ragged. His eyes had widened when he had caught his little brother red-handed.  _‘It isn’t natural.’_  He had said, and Dante had explained to him. Tried to make him understand he wasn’t going to hurt anyone with this. It was only to set off steam, to burn out his troubles. The argument had escalated to the point of Dante confessing the primary reason of why, leading his brother to become his ‘protector’ in school. Anything to prevent things from getting out of control.

The two of them were capable of understanding the other pretty hard during this despite the disagreement, and for a day and a half their minds sang back and forth with the worry and joy. Now they knew the why of the younger brother’s plight. They knew the consequences of this.

_‘Every extreme is bad’_ , was the saying. As much as the fire was dangerous, it was useful. It could keep you warm in the days of cold weather, cook your food so it tasted better, provide with light, and it could be used as a weapon. Or, like Dante, to burn away your problems.

At first he just kept a match book in his pocket and would strike them while he sat on the swings, watching the obedient flame flicker in the breeze, blackening the wood, transforming it to charcoal at his command. An uncontrollable grin would spread across his features. Soon he graduated to burning things related to whatever incident that had angered him, often times the flame would be a different hue or emit copious black smoke that choked him. For that brief moment in time that the flames leapt, devouring feverishly, he became tranquil.

He had heard that nail polish made things burn quicker, but preferred to stick to his current methods. He didn’t want anything getting out of hand.

But of course, they only saw that part, almost harmless, typical, normal. They didn’t suspect what was behind that.

Because there is always something more behind such a behavior.

As odd as it sounded, Dante considered fire his friend. And that, to someone surrounded by wood and heat, is something very dangerous.


	3. Bugie e sogni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante confesses having started a fire, and at night he has odd dreams.

"How was school?"

_Okay, okay. Everything's okay._

"You sure? You have that distant look again."

_I just...Everyone at school was being mean again._

For once, a truth. He usually lied about the fires, about the frequency, or to disguise what or why or how he was feeling. Why he didn't return home immediately after school. Just tiny little lies to cover everything up. Dante didn't like lying, and it disturbed him how easy it was to twist things and how talented people could become at it. Lying, in a way, was an art. He was no artist.

His mother's, Marie's loving, concerned face troubled Dante. His face flustered and he started feeling restless and feverish. Perhaps...perhaps it was the winter getting to him, God knew it affected Davide to no end. The sickly older brother always came down with an illness of some sort come winter.

"I lit fire again." Dante blurted out. "It was so...frustrating. Just a couple of pages off my notebook. Nothing to worry about."

His mother's worry increased at the confession. Not at him, Dante noted with relief, but for him.

Loner.

Liar.

Arsonist, or was pyromaniac?

"Did Troy bully you again?" Marie had received neither an affirmative or negative answer. Despite the lack of clarification, one that never came, Marie decided to trust her maternal instincts, understanding that something was troubling her youngest child.

"I'm just the odd one out, Mom, that's all." Dante shrugged.

 

* * *

 

Scrambling to the room he shared with Davide, the boy laid down in bed. He definitely wasn't feeling well. The lighter was still in his hand, making him grin slightly. He had never thought much of it.

At first, it was simply stress relief. An escape route for small, bad moments that became pent up in his chest until they wanted, _needed_ to get out.

Then it escalated. He wanted more.

He had been found, one day. He still distinctly remembered her mother's reaction when he had found five-year-old him playing with matches.

What really got to him was not the fact that lighting fires could predict violent behavior—it was that up until he was told about it, he never thought it was wrong.

Here was something Dante did all the time, and thought nothing of it, and it turned out the rest of the world thought it was completely reprehensible.

_"There's nothing wrong with me, is there?"_

That's when he knew he needed to change, so he tried making rules.

Never burn anything big, just unimportant, small things that nobody will notice.

Do it only when things become too much (though Dante liked to stretch that rule).

Nobody can see you, so it’s better to do it when he was sure nobody would be around.

The last one was ironic. Fire usually got attention. In movies at least, when somebody saw a fire it meant someone had passed there or was still there. Ironic, he loved fire, it’s nature was stand out while he preferred to be invisible.

His mom, dad, and brother tolerated it, they knew it was his vent, but it didn't mean they understood.

They wouldn't understand. Now if his body temperature could lower, that would be great.

* * *

 

Dante was suspecting he was slowly losing his mind. In his dreams he saw wildly glinting green eyes and animalistic sharp orange ones.

Growls and dark, huge shapes were present every night, beckoning him night after night. He didn't understand those nightmares one bit.

He was scared.


	4. Deliri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante deals with nightmares. But things aren't always as they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the odd style, I'm experimenting!  
> Enjoy the chapter. Don't forget to leave a review.

The nightmares had gotten worse.

Sleepless nights. Static in ears. Eyes, red dynamite.

And then there it was, that thing, taking over, conquering. It ripped through his stomach, made his head spin in the tightest circles. Red. Blazing. _Deranged._  

And there was a place in his dreams.

Odd. He had never been to the desert before.

* * *

 

It got worse. Worse worse _worse_.

To the point Dante wanted to go to that place -wherever 'that place' was- if there was a slim chance the strange nightmares stopped.

Time passed. He got into fights. Black eye and chapped lips. Fire sang in his blood. His chest was boiling.

His parents got called. Davide inquired about the why. Dante always said the same answer.

_I don't know._

* * *

 

Davide didn't know what to make of his little brother. One day he had been okay, reading or burning leaves as usual. Nothing odd. Normal for him.

Then one day he had gotten violent. It was like the fire didn't quell his aggression anymore.

As of here and now, Dante was calm. Whining about his homework, but calm.

He had nice eyes, even when they were chartreuse.

Timber. Remote cabins. Itchy warm burgundy jackets bunching around fingers. Afternoon glows in October. Cozy.

October eyes weren’t mean to have clouds on them, either.

Davide wanted to know what was wrong with him. Surely nightmares couldn't be the problem. But it seemed he never got around to asking. Time either moved too fast or too slow, but it was never steady enough for him to keep his footing.

His hands were shaking. He didn't know why. His hands weren't allowed to shake. His hands were controlled, coiled, tight, tight, tight. His hands were a perpetual structure of his anatomy, unbreakable, stone, marble. 

His hands could mold a body and turn it into something glorious, something horrendous, break it, mend it, twist it 360 degrees. Turn it into anything. Anything at all.

Davide's hands didn't shake. Ever.

Today was weird.

* * *

Dante had the sneaking suspicion he was going crazy after all. That night, before he fell asleep, he could have sworn a voice whispered in his ear.

 _'Duncan'_ , it had said, and he couldn't shake off the feeling of utter wrongness that had assaulted him and had chased his sleep away.

That was not his name.

 


	5. La voce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante's dreams evolve. He doesn't take it well.

_STOP IT! No, no, no, it's okay, I'm okay, I'm fine, see? See, I'm smiling. I'm smiling, Davide, there's nothing to worry about. I'm good, great. Right? Right. Look at me!_

The odd dreams, the strange nightmares about fire and blackness and something big and just out of reach had mutated into a voice. A voice that should have taken just a check up and then left, as it (he? To Dante it sounded like a he) told him, but some things just didn't add up.

At least, that was his reasoning, and it existed in his mind despite Dante's vehement protests. He didn't want to hear any voice. He wanted it out of his head. His big brother was worrying about him, he could tell.

At the very least Dante wished that the dreams wouldn't have fire in them. He loved fire, and the fact that it was there while the voice was whispering to him made it...tainted somehow.

The fire, and now voices. Was this it? Was he going crazy?

"Dante?"

_He knows._

_He knows._

_He KNOWS._

Even the the paranoid suspicion that Davie didn't really noticed what was wrong with him, Dante couldn't help but feel deeply relieved at the mere utterance of his name. The voice called him another names, and continued to do so even as he made known his discomfort.

Dante wasn't sure which he preferred, being called that odd name (And why Duncan? That name wasn'twasn'twasn'this) or being called son.

The first time the voice had called him that the boy had felt the faintest familiarity and it terrified him.

_Nothing's wrong, Davie. Nothing at all. Why? Do you think there's something wrong? Do you? You noticed something, don't you? Don't lie to me...don't lie to me!_

_I'm sorry. I'm just scared. I'm afraid. I'm afraid. Let me out of here, let me out. DON'T LOOK AT ME. Don't...don't touch me!_

"D-Dante?"

What scared him the most was that the voice had recently dropped all pretenses that he was talking to something human. Dante always thought something didn't quite add up with him, but whether he dismissed that voice or believed what it said, the ten-year old knew something was deeply wrong with him.

The fact that the voice had said a few minutes ago that it would visit him did not help matters.

"Dante?"

_That's right, that's my name, isn't it? Mom...mom gave me that name, don't you know? You believe me, don't you? Right, Davie? I...I don't look like dad or mom but that's...that's because I'm different. That's right, I'm the different one, the troubled one, but you - you're just like everyone else, you're...you're **normal** and NOT special and there's nothing interesting or weird or strange or odd or **freaky** about you and STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT. STOP IT, STOP -_

* * *

 

'Dante?'

A pause. Davide tries again -

'Te, are you okay?'

Shallow breathing.

'Yeah.'

He gulps in the air. Breathes.

'Yeah, I'm okay.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante's parents take him to a hospital to find what's wrong with him. It doesn't work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really apologize for the super short chapter!

Dante sat beside his parents in the hospital waiting room with his legs crossed and his hands twitching in his lap.

The voice continued talking to him, and he didn't know what to do. The realization that he was having auditory hallucinations should have been distressing, but Dante found it reassuring; it supported his idea that the figure didn’t exist outside the realm of imagination, which meant it could be sent away with treatment.

It was possible he had some psychotic burst of schizophrenia, which, admittedly, he knew very little about, but his general knowledge of the illness was steadily convincing him it was the source of his delusions.

What do I have? I'm hearing voices. Hallucinating.

At least, I think that’s what’s happening.

_“To start with, why don’t you tell me when it began?”_

A couple of weeks ago.

_“And was anything strange occurring before then.”_

I have been having some strange dreams...

* * *

Alessio and Gemma did their own explanation on what had been happening with their boy. Dante had been staring off into space, listless, when he suddenly spoke.

“Go away.” Dante clenched his eyes tightly as his mother's head snapped towards him. “Go away, go away, go away-“

“Dante? Sweetie, are you alright?” His mother asked, her painted fingernails coming to rest on his trembling shoulders. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I’m here to help you.”

Dante gripped the arms of his chair so hard that the wood creaked. “It’s – it’s to talking me,” he said with difficulty, wrenching his attention away from whatever he was hearing. “It’s talking to me,” he said again, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s – normal, right? For people to hear voices? For them to touch you? Because he- he- I feel that too.”

* * *

 A few days later, he saw _him_.

 _He_ didn't let him go home that night.


	7. Il tuo nome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante wants to wake up.
> 
> He can't.

The thing with hallucinations, be them auditory, visual or of any other kind, is that you may be convinced that it is real, for a while. Then you'll realize the truth, and eventually it will disappear.

Right?

Well, Dante was entirely certain this was not an hallucination. Not when he had run until the point of exhaustion, chased by a creature that shouldn't be so fixated on him. A creature that was all his kind despised and feared.

The crystals of the lair were shining with a soft glow. This was no delusion. He wasn't creative enough to pull that off. However, the things the other said... This wasn't real. This could not be real.

He felt like a butterfly trapped in a spider's web. Fear had been pooling into his gut, the sheer sensory overload convincing him of the nature of the present events.

His kidnapper, the Kaiju King, Belloc -what he had dismissed as a delusion- insisted on using the wrong _wrong_ name. Insisted that he was...that he was...

 "It's Dante."

How he dared to speak up against what was possibly humanity's worst nightmare, he didn't know. The name rubbed him the wrong way, along with the Kaiju's insistence of a direct, blood relation -as impossible and ludicrous as it seemed. That was why he had dared to argue, to voice his identity.

Dante, not Duncan. Ten years old. Adopted, yes, but it didn't mean anything. Human, perfectly human, not Kaiju or hybrid or anything in between.

"It's Dante White, not Duncan." the words were soft, a mere murmur. Uncertainty oozed from them, but not because Dante doubted his own claim, oh no. If his kidnapper had gotten the wrong boy, what would happen to him now?

In the back of his head, a fact that he had visited before popped up. Belloc was notorious among the Kaiju because he could breathe fire. He was, as far as humans knew, the only Kaiju of his kind that possessed such a gift.

Dante himself had always loved fire.

* * *

 

As it turned out, he shouldn't have worried.

As it turned out, he did was who the Kaiju had claimed him to be. He couldn't call it an hallucination if he remembered the image of nearly burning alive. Right down to the burning sensations all over him, skin blistering and vision useless. Mouth open in a silent scream.

As it turned out, Kaiju -or half-Kaiju, he supposed- heal quickly.

As it turned out, - _let me go now you've proven me wrong please pleaseplease_ \- he would never return home.

* * *

 

Duncan Rosenblatt is not even ten minutes old when his mother dies. (It's never really the same again, after that).

 


End file.
